Amazing Short Stories

By Daphne Alcott

When a Rose Dies

When a rose dies it is incredibly beautiful.

    The bright scarlet petals slowly darken until they one say begin to fall. One after the other they float down towards the ground and lay down at the foot of the vase. One petal at a time. Slowly. Soon there is a small crimson pool under the rose, as if it is slowly bleeding out.

    Only when the last petal falls, is when we let the rose be dead. Only when it has lost everything we call beautiful. Only when it has painfully lost all of its soft petals. Only then do we take it out of the vase and let it rest in peace.

    We probably know that it has been dead for a long time and that we should have let it go a long time ago. We probably know that the rose suffers during its last days. We probably know that it would be more merciful to put it in the compost as soon as the flower’s strong, clear colour begins to falter.

    But it is just so incredibly beautiful.

If the world is a flower shop and God is a florist, we are all flowers. Like flowers, we need nourishment and warmth when we desperately try to grow up and become something in a ruthless world. Like flowers, we benefit from a bit of extra encouragement on the way. Like flowers, some of us are slightly rickety and need a flower stick to lean on. Like flowers, we are all different. Like flowers, we will all die.

    Some of us are sunflowers. Sunflowers who love to stand in the spotlight and shine with their glowing beauty. Sunflowers who rapidly grow tall and proud in order to tower over the other flowers. Sunflowers who follow the sun anywhere it goes to let the rays caress their bright yellow petals and absorb the lovely warmth. Sunflowers who are even named after the wonderful star they adore so much.

    Others are dahlias. Dahlias who take a little longer to bloom but once they do they are just as elegant as other flowers, if not more. Dahlias who are appreciated and coveted with their many bright colours. Dahlias who are complicated with their intricate patterns and thin petals. Dahlias who grow back stronger and more enchanting every time someone cuts them down.

    Among us there are also daisies. Daisies who are often underestimated because of their size. Daisies who are not only cute and dainty but also independent and able to live in nearly all climates. Daisies who nobody seems to care about. Daisies who have their petals torn off by people who simply have nothing better to do.

    There are not many, but some of us are succulents. Succulents who are strong and enduring. Succulents who aren’t bothered by the immense heat, the lack of water and attention or the loneliness of the large, empty desert. Succulents who hate being dependent on others. Succulents who find that they do best on their own.

   But Marine is not a sunflower, or a dahlia, or en daisy, or a succulent. Mariene Efira is a rose. A rose who hasn’t been bright scarlet in seven whole years. When she was only ten years old she received her first dark spot. That was when everything began. That was when she began dying. Slowly. Like a rose. That was when someone should have replaced the old water in her vase, given her stem a fresh cut and given her a cold bath.

   No one even looked her way. Not until the spot had spread. Not until it was too late.

   Not even a year later, three of her smooth petals were wrinkled and a dark crimson colour. Now, it was certain that someone had seen it. If you looked at her for more than a few seconds it was almost impossible not to notice such dark petals on such a young Mariene. But still no one did anything about it. Instead she was admired for her new hue, friends brushed their hands against the petals with eyes as large as saucers, parents proudly accepted compliments about the beautiful daughter they had. Before that, she had never been called beautiful. She was pretty, cute, sweet, dainty and nice, but never beautiful. It felt right. Mariene wanted to be beautiful.

    Beautiful was only the beginning, she later learned. It led to handsome. Mariene first heard that when she was thirteen and all of her beloved petals had become as dark as blood. Older boys began calling her handsome, attractive, hot and even sexy. It did not feel right. Mariene is not sexy. Those words sent shivers down her spine. Mariene terribly missed her clear, scarlet petals, she wanted to be pretty again, and cute, and sweet, and dainty, and kind, she wanted to be a child again.

   But Mariene Efira was dying. And that is not something children do.

    Only a few months later, Mariene’s first petal fell. It hurt horribly. Slowly, tremendously slowly the petal dried up until there wasn’t any life left to hold it in place. Once again, she was the only one even slightly worried. Even though all roses who lose their petals are old. When they become as fragile as she is they get taken care of, stop working, get admitted to hospitals or retirement homes. If she could she would scream at everyone around her; don’t they see she’s not okay? Don’t they see she’s dying?

    Three years later she’s not sexy anymore. Or hot. Or attractive. Or handsome. Or even beautiful. Boys never talk to her anymore. It feels good. But she’s not pretty either. Or cute. Or sweet. Or dainty. Or nice. She doesn’t receive compliments anymore. Four frail petals are left. Mariene knows it’s a question of when they will fall off, not if. They are all so dried out. It is too late now.